La Brasserie was London’s first all-day brasserie when it opened in 1972. I can’t speak to the iconic status its website professes, but I can tell you all about how delicious the food was, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Annemari and I took a quick tube to South Kensington Station and walked down Pelham Street to Brompton Road. I nearly missed the restaurant because I got stuck on the library sign beside it — a sign announcing something called The Library that is not in fact a library at all* — and Annemari had to point it out to me.

* excuse me while I’m baffled that the Google Maps link led me to a store I found out about this very morning via a post on Park & Cube. What.

After having lunch at La Brasserie, we took the four-minute walk to the National History Museum, because that’s what you do when you’re spending time with Annemari in Knightsbridge. The area is really chock full of things to see (and eat).

Like I mentioned in Six Days in London, the Victoria & Albert Museum was the first one Annemari and I visited in September, largely because it was still open when we finished our afternoon tea at Patisserie Valerie across the road. It seemed a lot bigger to me in 2007 than it did in September, though, and that would be because it has “reduced gallery openings after 18.00” on Friday (when it’s open until 10 PM). That explains that! Wow, an explanation for a V&A thing. Color me fucking astonished.

See, the thing about the V&A is that I seriously cannot make sense of it at all. I went to the website and everything just now to try and figure out what in the world the swirl reminiscent of a sea creature that’s installed on the ceiling represents, or where it came from, and I can’t even find that. I found out they have a Diwali installation, though! If you’re into that.

Despite my complete lack of comprehension skills when it comes to this museum, I quite enjoy it. It has a lot of artifacts and types of art, from entire pieces of architecture (like legit house façades) and furniture to ironwork to sculpture, photography and fashion. My favorite thing about this visit was getting to take photos of everyone sketching Rodin sculptures; I’ve decided I’m going to make a point of this whenever I go to art museums in the future (swap out Rodin for… actually between casts and collections, you may not have to). Remind me to take business cards with me next time.

But anyway, without further ado: here are some of the things (and people!) that caught my eye.

The closest Patisserie Valerie location to the hotel Annemari and I booked in Earl’s Court was in Knightsbridge, a twenty-minute walk away. Annemari and I took our time getting there; it was our first day in the Earl’s Court area of Kensington and Chelsea, and therefore recon time. But we got there.

The Patisserie Valerie in Knightsbridge is a stone’s throw away from some of the museums I’ve already blogged about, including the Natural History Museum. It’s a deep, narrow little shop decorated in the chain’s usual wooden and burgundy tones. We were seated at a comparatively large circular table near a corner, with plenty of space for ourselves, our bags, our plates, preserves, and the big afternoon tea three-tier stand that would be placed in the middle in no time.

Overview

The first time I met Annemari in person, I was 18 and she was 16 (a moment of ‘holy crap,’ please). I was spending three weeks in Oxford, and took a coach to London for the day to meet up with her. We found each other at the entrance to Kensington Gardens, and wandered down to Cromwell Road to visit the Natural History Museum.

By the time Annemari and I got to the Natural History Museum the Monday during our September trip, I was tired and wearing nine plasters on each foot, and I went off to sit on a bench after dramatically croaking, “Go on without me.”

(Okay, I did not say that, but I probably said something equally pathetic. Allow me the poetic license.)

I mention my pitiful state for two reasons: a) when Annemari and I first met, I still felt super awkward and tried to like, not be a disaster; not anymore; and b) this post is brief, a collection of photos I took as I trailed after Annemari throughout the dinosaur display and the mammal and reptile rooms. The mammals had considerably better lighting, though, so if you want snakes, you’re better off checking out my zoo post.

We walked to Brasserie Gustave from our hotel in Earl’s Court — it was about twenty minutes away, like most places in Knightsbridge, and we wanted to see more of our area.

The restaurant is located on a side street off Fulham Road, and it’s easy to have to look twice before realizing the beautiful house you’re looking at is in fact a little French restaurant. It tells you what to expect, right away: a cozy home-like feeling, warm and intimate.

I’m going to tell you a little story about my sense of direction. I hope my sense of direction forgives me for it.

In April of 2014, I made the very scary, very terrifying decision to move to London on my own. Surprising everyone but especially me, I lasted a year before I moved back home. (It was a very good decision. That was a stressful year, financially.) In that time, I admittedly did not get out of Belsize Park much, and at least I eventually learned which way Swiss Cottage lay from the intersection of England’s Lane, Primrose Hill Road and Eton Avenue. Considering that’s precisely where my regular Starbucks was, it took four walks too many.

But anyway.

I went back in early September to retrieve the luggage I left behind with a friend. I wrote down directions, and ran out of battery on my phone on the Stansted Express, which, as it turns out, has plugs in it. I only noticed this two minutes before reaching Liverpool Street Station.

The google maps directions for buses were weird, and I walked out of the tube station and went down the street, then west on the street, then thought, “The fuck is going on? I don’t recognize anything. Is that way the way I went when I had that modeling gig at a studio on Fleet Street? No. Blackfriars? A bridge? St Paul’s? Y’all, I’m so confused.”

I had some battery left on my phone, which was very dark, so I checked again under the inning of an Itsu.

This was not the way to the bus stop.

I walked back to the station, and up the street beside it. There were letter signs on the station doors to that side, but what could they possibly be? People were waiting outside them, but there were no poles with bus signs on them, and it dead ended. But there were buses at the end of it, and — could one possibly be the number I was looking for? Where would it stop to pick up people?

Then I looked to the side and realized the letter signs on the station doors were bus stops.

Um, duh.

I made it to my next bus stop and saw Canada House. Unlike Liverpool Street Station, I’ve been to Trafalgar Square a few times. I know the area between it and Charing Cross Road well enough to not have to pull out a map while dragging other people places with me. This meant absolutely nothing to me this time, when I had to ask tourists with a map if Orange Street was on it (it wasn’t), and then found a Caffè Nero — my phone was completely dead by now — to pull out my laptop and check google maps on that.

Guess what? If you see the National Gallery, which you cannot miss, and walk to the left side of it until you hit a street, that is Whitcomb Street, which goes up to Orange Street. You can see the Thistle sign even if you’re nearsighted and wearing a t-shirt in 10-degree weather because you’re coming from Spain and you couldn’t be bothered to carry a hoodie somewhere outside your suitcase. The Canadian embassy with all its maple leaf flags is right in front. You can’t miss it.

I’m nowhere near as lazy about walking when I can do it with my camera, slowly, especially with a friend. So the first week I spent in London last year involved some long-ass walks. I’m not sure which was the longest; our first day there, Annemari and I took a while to find — after, let’s be real, probably getting lost — the building Ashley was living in at the time, and I basically got a full view of Marylebone right there… and a fair share of Fitzrovia. The last Sunday, we covered a ridiculous amount of ground, between Regent’s Park and Baker Street and the one successful flat viewing of the week (it was Benji and Mindy and the chihuahua, wasn’t it?).

Today, I’m showing you what I wore on Wednesday — yes, this is April 30, 2014, but let’s be real, I still wear this shit on a regular basis. (Except the jeans, which I only wear if I’m going to be photographed. They’re too thin. Too much like leggings.)

Essentially, I am stalling while I figure out what each main point of our walk was, because quite frankly I’m fuzzy on the details of the whole first bit. Let me just…

Holy god. That was a long-ass walk. I didn’t realize St Paul’s Cathedral was that far out there! Well, we were there to meet Ash, but we missed her, and so I decided I wanted to see the Tate Britain. It’s a thing. I planned my first trip to London — in 2007 — around a Millais exhibition. I’m a walking cliché, but that’s my favorite museum in London, in terms of the art inside. (Favorite building is the Royal Academy; I couldn’t tell you why.)

So I stopped at a Waterstones to use their WiFi on my tablet — I didn’t have a phone plan back then — and figure out how to get there. Or rather, how to get to the river. From there I was pretty confident of my ability to keep walking until I saw Vauxhall Bridge.

And then we walked. For EVER.

It was brilliant, and this is an outfit post and therefore just a taste of the truly outrageous amount of photos I took that day.

The night before I flew to Spain in April, I had the chance to stay at the Travelodge opposite Euston station in central London. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect — I’ve seen a lot of Travelodge reviews over the months, and they tend to be rather mixed. They’re often worse for the more modestly located ones, but still I was hoping it would be like the pictures: no-fuss, clean rooms designed for comfort, the kind of solid decor I wish all studio flats had.

And reader, it was.

The Travelodge chain is budget hotels, and they are everywhere. There was in fact a Travelodge closer to the hostel where I’d stayed the night before — in Marylebone. But I got the Euston one, and I was very, very pleased. I was most pleased when I got a call and it took me ten minutes door to door to get from my room to an office on Oxford Street. That was such an eye-opener, and here I thought I had it good (I did) living in Belsize Park, twenty or thirty minutes from the city center by tube.

Add Euston to my list of pipe dream places to live, somewhere between Belgravia and Marylebone.